


don we now our cough medicine

by katsumi



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Fluff, F/M, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 15:52:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8997205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katsumi/pseuds/katsumi
Summary: Bellamy's sick on Christmas, which kind of sucks, but he's not about to ruin anyone else's holiday by griping about it. That is, until Clarke won't take no for an answer.





	

Two days before the first Christmas Bellamy has ever spent without his sister, he gets sick. Because of _course_.

 

“You want me to stay, Bell?” Octavia asks, and even over the phone he can tell the ask is mostly an empty gesture. She knows he’s not going to make her stick around, not when she’s been babbling on about her ski getaway with Lincoln ever since she booked the flight last August.

 

Plus, Octavia is many wonderful things, but “natural caregiver” is not one of them. She’s one of those people for whom “suck it up and get over yourself” is legitimate medical advice.

 

“Nah, it’s fine,” Bellamy says. “I’m not that sick.” He has to lean away from the phone to cough, which kind of undercuts his point.

 

Octavia is clearly unimpressed. “You sound like you’re dying.”

 

“I’m not dying,” he grouses.

 

“Do you need to like, see a doctor?” The disdain with which she says the word doctor, like _has your sad body really failed you to the point where you can’t just wait it out_ , makes him grin.

 

“I’m really fine. Go skiing. Wear a helmet.”

 

“Fine. I’m going to make Miller send me updates on your health, though.”

 

“Oh,” Bellamy mumbles. “Yeah, uh. Sure.”

 

The plan had been to drive down to Miller’s dad’s house for Christmas, but Bellamy is about 80% sure at this point that he’s not making it out of the apartment in the next few days. Possibly not even out of his own bed. But Octavia doesn’t need to know that. He knows for all her excitement about the ski trip, she’s feeling a bit guilty about spending the holidays so far away from him. (Octavia guilt manifests itself in barrages of really aggressive text messages.)

 

And Bellamy’s fine, honestly. Like yes, he’s always done Christmas with Octavia, even when it was just the two of them and he had to wrap lights around a standing lamp because they couldn’t afford a tree. But Christmas was always a holiday about making Octavia happy. This year, instead of watching her rip open the packaging on a new cabbage patch doll, he got to help her pack for her first vacation away with her boyfriend. So it’s almost like the important part of Christmas has already happened, which means being sick on the actual day is really no big deal.

 

Miller seems unconvinced by this line of reasoning.

 

“Dude,” he says, shoving a mug of tea under Bellamy’s nose, “you are so sad.”

 

“Thanks man,” Bellamy says, wriggling a hand free from his blanket cocoon to take the mug. “Always appreciate the pep talk.”

 

“You look like death,” Miller says, folding his arms across his chest. “You’re all gray and sweaty.”

 

Bellamy would disagree, but he caught himself in the mirror earlier and nearly gave himself a heart attack. “Shut up,” he grunts.

 

Miller considers him for a long moment, frowning. “I’m going to stay,” he says, eventually. “To make sure you don’t die.”

 

“I’m not going to die,” Bellamy says. “And you’re not going to stay. You can’t.”

 

“My dad will understand,” Miller shrugs.

 

“So you’re going to make Monty go meet him alone, huh?”

 

Miller winces. “Crap.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Monty can stay, too,” Miller tries. “He wouldn’t want you to be alone. For some reason, he finds you charming.”

 

“That’s one of the many reasons I like your boyfriend better than you,” Bellamy says. “How about you leave him with me, and you go to your dad’s? Everybody wins.”

 

Miller rolls his eyes. “Yeah, fat chance.” But he’s tapping his toe against the floor with increasing intensity, and he’s positively scowling now, so Bellamy knows he’s actually worried. He’s probably trying to calculate how disappointed Monty would be if he told them they weren’t going, and Bellamy’s touched.

 

“Miller,” Bellamy says, softening a bit. “I’m fine. Well, I’m clearly not _fine_ , but I’m also not going to die in the next 48 hours. You guys should go.”

 

Miller’s scowl only deepens.

 

“I’m serious,” Bellamy continues. “Monty’s meeting your dad for the first time. That’s a big deal.”

 

“I guess,” Miller says, as though he hasn’t been freaking the fuck out about it for the past month.

 

Bellamy sighs. “Miller, are you worried that I’m sick, or are you worried that I’m going to be spending Christmas alone? Because for a guy who refused to put up lights because, and I quote, ‘fuck all this seasonal joy and crap,’ you’re getting awfully sentimental.”

 

Miller bristles. Jackpot.

 

“I’m not worried about you spending Christmas alone,” he snaps, _clearly_ lying but determined not to acknowledge it. “I’m just trying to be a good roommate and make sure you don’t die, jesus.”

 

Bellamy smiles. “I won’t. Have fun. And uh, if Octavia asks about me, can you just pretend I’m with you? I didn’t want to bum her out before the big trip.”

 

Miller growls, reaching over to shove Bellamy’s pile of cough drops closer to him on the coffee table. “You want me to lie to your sister now? Very Christmas-y.”

 

“Yes please. Just don’t tell Monty you’re lying.”

 

Miller nods. “Good call. He’ll tell her the truth.”

 

“He’s a better person than either of us.”

 

“Damn straight.”

 

“Oh,” Bellamy adds, “Clarke too.”

 

Miller raises an eyebrow, and Bellamy flushes.

 

“If she asks, tell her I’m with you. Not that she’d be asking you about me. But, you know, if she does. Happen to. Yeah. Shut up.”

 

“Good god,” Miller groans.

 

But Miller makes him promise he won’t go completely without human contact for three days, and so Bellamy assures him that Raven will be stopping by to check on him.

 

This is another lie, because Raven is actually going to be spending Christmas with Wells in New York City. No one knows this but Bellamy, because Bellamy is the only one who has walked in on Raven and Wells making out in a coat closet. (So far, that is; they’re bound to get caught by more people eventually. They’re not very subtle.)

 

At first he thought being the only one who knew about their secret relationship was going to be a huge drag, but it turns out all Raven really needs him for is to cover for her when she wants to slip out of group hangs unnoticed. Bellamy can do that. And if Bellamy can lie for her, then she can lie for him.

 

“Can you do you me a favor and lie to Miller for me?” Bellamy asks, as soon as Raven picks up the phone.

 

“Sure,” Raven answers, instantly. Raven's so great. “What about?”

 

“I’m too sick to go to his dad’s for Christmas. Tell him you’ve come over and checked on me and I’m doing fine.”

 

“Are you actually doing fine?”

 

“Yes,” Bellamy says, but it comes out as something of a wheeze.

 

Raven is probably the only one of his friends who would accept this. “Okay then. You need anything? Medicine? Soup?”

 

“Are you offering to bring me soup?” Bellamy asks, amused.

 

“Absolutely not.”

 

“Thought so.” And then, before he hangs up, he remembers to add: “Wait, Monty too, okay? If he asks, you’ve checked on me, and I’m fine. And if _Octavia_ asks, I’m still fine, but you haven’t checked on me, because I’m with Miller.”

 

Bellamy can practically hear Raven roll her eyes over the phone. “That was unnecessarily complicated. Why are you so convinced everyone’s going to be spending their holiday worrying about your sorry ass?” But then, quietly, she adds, “Seriously, do you need soup? My bus doesn’t leave for a few hours…”

 

Bellamy grins. He has the best friends.

 

* * *

 

Bellamy turns on The Lion King and falls asleep before they even introduce Timon and Pumbaa. He must sleep straight through to the next morning, because when he lurches awake, sunlight is pouring in through the blinds and someone is tapping at his door.

 

Bellamy gathers his blankets and penguin shuffles to the door, blinking away sleep. He’s not sure what he was expecting, but he is definitely not prepared to find Clarke on the other side of the door, looking like something out of a painting with her lavender scarf and nose tinged pink from the cold.

 

“Hey,” he croaks.

 

Clarke cocks her head, assessing him. “Good grief, Bellamy.” She’s already unwrapping her scarf. “Going to invite me in, or what?”

 

Bellamy steps aside, because what’s the point, honestly.

 

“Why are you here?” he asks, shutting the door behind her.

 

Clarke ignores the question. “Have you taken your temperature recently?” she asks, hanging up her coat.

 

“I just woke up,” Bellamy says. “Again, why are you here?”

 

“You’re sick,” Clarke says, like this should be the end of the discussion. But Bellamy knows Clarke’s supposed to be at her mom’s house this weekend; she’d spent all last Saturday on their couch whining about it, her feet in Monty’s lap and her head resting on Bellamy’s thigh. (She’d started the other way and then flipped halfway through Return of the Jedi, and Bellamy had spent the entire fight on Endor trying not to breathe lest he accidentally shake her off.)

 

Clarke turns on her heel for the kitchen, and Bellamy shuffles after her.

 

“I don’t recall telling you that I’m sick,” Bellamy he says.

 

“You didn’t.”

 

“I told Miller not to—”

 

“It wasn’t Miller,” Clarke says, digging around Bellamy’s cabinet for a glass. “It was Raven.”

 

Bellamy groans. He’d forgotten to mention Raven shouldn’t tell Clarke, but he’d figured it was implied.

 

As if reading his mind, Clarke shoves her phone, which is open to Clarke and Raven’s text history, under his nose.

 

**Raven**  
Bellamy is sick and being a noble idiot about it  
do with that what you will  
and tell him I’m not breaking the rules  
so he best keep his mouth shut if he wants to live

 

As he’s reading, Raven texts something else, but Clarke jerks the phone away before he can read more than “seriously, are you going to or…”

 

“I don’t want to know what she means by _rules_ ,” Clarke says, blushing for reasons that are beyond Bellamy’s comprehension.

 

“You really don’t,” he agrees. “And seriously, you didn’t have to come.” He’s starting to feel a little dizzy, and that’s either because he’s been standing for less than five minutes (a bad sign) or because Clarke is standing two feet away from him, all windswept curls and flushed cheeks (a worse sign).

 

“I wanted to come,” Clarke says, filling a glass with water and determinedly not looking at him. (His heart does this embarrassing thud against his ribcage.) “Now, go lie down.”

 

He does. He’s honestly not sure his legs will keep him up much longer, anyways.

 

He curls himself back into a ball in the corner of the couch, and after a moment she slumps down next to him, holding the glass of water out in front of his face.

 

“Drink,” she instructs. He drinks about half, but Clarke raises both eyebrows like she’s about to murder him, so he finishes the entire thing. He moves to wipe his mouth when he’s done, and almost drops the glass when Clarke reaches out and presses her palm against his forehead.

 

“Ack!” he chokes out.

 

“Shh,” Clarke says, leaning closer. She bites her lip in what looks like genuine concern, which floods Bellamy’s chest with warmth. “You really are sick, Bellamy.”

 

“I’m aware.”

 

“You have a fever,” she says, stroking the side of his temple with her thumb. And yeah, if he wasn’t flushed and warm before, he certainly is now.

 

Bellamy made peace a long time ago with the fact that he’s kind of ridiculously into Clarke. As one of Monty’s best friends, Clarke had started showing up in Bellamy’s life a year ago. It had taken a good six months for him to realize that what he thought was friendly affection for an admittedly attractive female friend was actually full-blown, I want-to-spend-every-waking-moment-with-you adoration. It crept up on him and knocked him sideways.

 

And by the time he’d figured it out, it had seemed like too late to do anything about it. She’s his friend now as much as she is Monty’s, and Bellamy’s not going to risk making her uncomfortable just because he couldn’t get his shit together months ago and tell her how he felt back when there was less history coloring everything. Because at the end of the day, Clarke is cool and he wants her around.

 

It still sucks. Particularly because the more comfortable Clarke is with someone, the more touchy she gets. And as much as Bellamy enjoys it when Clarke slings her arms around his waist, or nuzzles her cheek against his shoulder—which she does a lot—things like that make it hard for him to keep the boundary.

 

Bellamy is no stranger to self-flagellation, but even he’s reaching his breaking point.

 

“If I have a fever,” he manages, “then you should probably leave. Or you’ll get a fever.”

 

“Is that how fevers work?”

 

“Clarke.”

 

“Will I have to miss Christmas with my mother? Oh, man, anything but that.”

 

“ _Clarke_.”

 

She pulls back, smiling. “Relax, Bellamy. I don’t need to be at my mom’s until later tonight, so I’ve got time, okay. I come equipped with hand sanitizer, and I’ll even sit all the way on the other side of the couch.”

 

He starts to say something, but she holds a hand up to interrupt him.

 

“Doctor’s orders,” she says, and Bellamy doesn’t have the strength to fight her anymore. (It doesn’t help that he’s got no teeth in this fight, anyway; he never wants her to leave.)

 

“More like med student’s orders, which definitely doesn’t carry the same weight,” he gripes back. “But fine.”

 

She beams at him, and god he’s in so deep, because he honestly feels a little better already.

 

He votes for restarting The Lion King, but Clarke rejects this suggestion on the grounds that “it’s too fucking sad for a sick day movie” because “why waste energy on crying that should be spent on healing.” This is nonsense, and Bellamy tells her as much, but she insists, and that’s how they wind up watching season 2 of Parks and Recreation on Netflix.

 

“It’s perfect,” Clarke says, curling her legs under her on the couch. Bellamy realizes, distantly, that he can’t remember the last time she’s been on this couch and not been pressed up against his side. “It’s funny, and you’ve seen it all before, so you won’t miss anything if you fall asleep.”

 

“I’m not going to fall asleep,” Bellamy says, a little petulantly.

 

“Uh-huh,” says Clarke, clicking play, and sure enough, Bellamy falls asleep within a truly embarrassing fifteen minutes.

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes up after what feels like years of sleep to a dim room. He blinks the TV into focus, surprised to see it’s still playing Parks and Rec; the volume is turned low, but he can just make out the sound through the gunk in his ears. He turns his head, creaky and slow, and there’s Clarke. She’s hugging her knees to her chest and scrolling through her phone, blonde hair spilling across her shoulders in the warm lamplight, and all Bellamy can do for a moment is stare at her in something like awe.

 

When she glances over at him, her lips curve up into a small smile. “There you are,” she says.

 

He blinks back at her. “What time is it?”

 

She smiles, a little hesitant. “7:30.”

 

“Oh.” Then it clicks. “ _Oh_. Clarke—”

 

“I know,” she says, cutting him off. “It’s fine.”

 

“It’s not. What about dinner with your mom?”

 

Clarke shrugs. “This seemed more important.”

 

“Sitting next to me while I’m unconscious all day seemed more important?” he asks, incredulous.

 

Clarke lifts her chin, eyes sharp. “Yes,” she says, firm. “Because it _is_ more important.”

 

Bellamy has at least a dozen rebuttals, but they all die on his lips. Instead he just stares at her open-mouthed across the mountain of blankets. She holds his gaze as though daring him to argue with her. Hope flutters in his chest before he squelches it down.

 

He really does have the best friends. _Friends_.

 

“I don’t even have any food,” he mumbles. “You would have gotten a whole feast at your mom’s.”

 

“I already ordered a pizza,” Clarke replies, grinning, and Bellamy laughs. (It comes out as more cough than laugh, but he tries.)

 

The pizza arrives, and Clarke’s ordered his favorite toppings—peppers and olives—even though he’s too sick to eat any of it. Clarke jokes that he can watch her eat, as though watching Clarke eat pizza isn’t one of the things on his list of “shit Clarke does that is unreasonably hot.”

 

So he burrows back into the blankets, and Clarke eats her dinner, and they tell Netflix that yes, they are still watching Parks and Rec, thank you very much.

 

At 8:32, Raven sends a text to the group (minus Octavia).

 

**Raven  
** Bellamy is 100% alive and not dying I have seen it with my own two eyes

 

“Convincing,” Bellamy mutters, after Clarke reads it to him.

 

Miller sends back _thanks_ and Monty sends back a string of hearts. Wells sends a thoroughly incriminating _nice thanks raven so glad you’re near him for Christmas to be able to see if he’s okay in person, that’s really great and lucky,_ at which Bellamy and Clarke share a knowing look. (Bellamy’s almost positive Clarke knows, because Wells wears his heart on his goddamn sleeve, but he’s not going to bring it up for fear that Raven might actually murder him.)

 

By 9:00, even though Bellamy’s been asleep for most of the past 24 hours, he can barely keep his eyes open. Because of course he’s spending Christmas Eve with Clarke beside him on the couch, in an empty apartment, and he _can’t keep his eyes open_. His luck is terrible.

 

“Are you going to go to your mom’s tomorrow?” he asks, partly because he’s curious, but mostly just to keep himself awake.

 

He can’t see Clarke—he’s turned towards the TV, and his neck is so stiff that it’s a production to look her way—but he hears her sigh.

 

“I know it’s hard to spend time with her sometimes,” he continues. “But she’s family. You spend Christmas with family.”

 

Clarke doesn’t say anything. But then, all of a sudden, she is _right there_ , crouched on the floor beside the couch, her hand smoothing away the greasy hair from his forehead.

 

“It sucks that Octavia left,” she says, softly.

 

He just stares at her.

 

She runs her fingers through his hair again and again, her eyes not quite meeting his.

 

“I know you’re fine with it,” she continues. “I know you’re happy for her. But it still sucks.”

 

“Yeah,” he breathes, his throat somehow a little tighter than it was before. “I guess it does.”

 

Clarke nods, then shifts to face the TV. She doesn’t move back to her spot on the couch, and Bellamy doesn’t ask her to. He falls asleep with her hand still tracing soft patterns against his temple.

 

* * *

 

The next time he wakes, he knows he’s over the hump. The throbbing pain in his sinuses has eased, and he’s finally _hot_ under his mountain of blankets instead of freezing. He shifts, preparing to scramble out from beneath the heap, when he notices something.

 

That something is Clarke, fast asleep. She’s still sitting on the floor, but she’s turned to face him on the couch, her head pillowed in her arms. He’s reduced to stupefied silence for a moment, just taking in the soft rise and fall of her back as she breathes, the curve of her eyelashes against her cheek.

 

“Clarke,” he whispers.

 

She stirs, then opens her eyes. They focus on him, still lidded from sleep. He sucks in a breath.

 

“Merry Christmas,” she says, soft and smiling in the dawning light.

 

“It’s Christmas,” he says, stupidly.

 

“Yes. That’s why I said ‘Merry Christmas.’”

 

“No, I mean…” He shakes his head, trying to process this. She’s supposed to be in Connecticut right now with her mom, with the tree, with presents and pastries and everything.

 

“Merry Christmas, Bellamy,” she repeats, firm, like she’s warning him not to fight her on this. He won’t fight. He can at least give her that.

 

“Merry Christmas,” he breathes. In a sudden jolt of courage, he reaches out and grabs her hand, squeezing briefly. When he moves to pull away, she doesn’t let go.

 

“Sorry you have to spend Christmas in the least Christmas-y apartment of all time,” he mumbles, mostly to give his mouth something to do beside smile so damn wide. “Miller hates decorations.”

 

“I knew what I was getting into,” Clarke says, and Bellamy grips her hand even tighter.

 

* * *

 

 

Bellamy hates to break the spell—he is _holding Clarke’s hand_ , which has to be some kind of Christmas miracle—but also, he hasn’t showered in like three days. And he’d rather give up her hand voluntarily than drive her away by his own stench.

 

So he showers and changes into real clothes, not three-day-old pajamas. When he re-emerges and plops back down on the couch, Clarke shoves a slice of leftover pizza in his direction, puts on Elf, and calmly slides her hand back into his, leading Bellamy to wonder whether this is all just some really coherent fever dream.

 

He’s not going to ruin it by addressing it, though. He eats his pizza one-handed and tries to concentrate on Elf, even though all he can think about is the feel of her fingers interlaced with his.

 

The texts start coming in about halfway through the movie. A “merry xhristmas!” from Jasper, a selfie of a delighted Harper about to dig into a massive cinnamon roll, and even a begrudging “happy xmas” from Murphy.

 

Miller sends him an incredibly blurry photo of his dad and Monty making cookies side-by-side. Bellamy knows Miller well enough to know this means he tried to take the shot without being seen—Miller is such a dick about outward signs of sentimentality—and he grins at the photo. _You softie_ , he writes back.

 

Monty follows up a few minutes later with a photo of Miller staring daggers at the camera, wearing a santa-esque red beanie with a white pom-pom at the top. _He hates it but he’s wearing it, that’s love_ , the caption says. Clarke giggles as she reads over Bellamy’s shoulder.

 

Octavia sends him a photo of her and Lincoln on a chairlift in Tahoe. She’s beaming, Lincoln’s nose pressed fondly against her cheek, and Bellamy’s heart swells at the sight of it. She asks if they can FaceTime later, and Clarke smiles and rests her head against his shoulder as he coordinates the time.

 

They’re nearing the end of the movie when Raven sends him a simple, _has Clarke given you her present yet?_ Followed by a winky face emoji.

 

“Present?” Bellamy asks. He can’t see her face, because her head is still on his shoulder, but he feels her stiffen a bit.

 

“Yeah,” she says. “I was, uh, working up to it.”

 

“You didn’t have to get me a present. That’s why we did Secret Santa.”

 

“Well, you drew the short straw with Secret Santa,” she reminds him. “Jasper got you toe socks.”

 

“You say that like I can’t rock toe socks.”

 

“ _No one_ can rock toe socks.”

 

“Still,” Bellamy presses on. “You ditched your family for Christmas and nursed me back to health. I think you’ve more than made up the difference.”

 

Clarke lifts her head, eyebrow raised. “So, you don’t want your present, then?”

 

Bellamy grins. “Fine, you win, I want it. What is it?”

 

She looks at him for a moment, no longer smiling, and Bellamy’s grin falters. Then she locks her jaw, nods a little, and leans forward to press her lips against his.

 

It’s a short kiss, almost hesitant, but it leaves Bellamy winded anyways. Clarke pulls back slowly, eyes flickering up to look at him, and his whole brain short-circuits.

 

“Germs!” he croaks, because he’s a moron.

 

Clarke stares at him. “What?”

 

He shakes his head. “Sorry. I, um. That’s not how this usually goes in my head.”

 

“Usually?”

 

He leans a little closer, heart thumping. “Usually, when I imagine this, I manage to say something suave about how much I like you and how much I’ve been kicking myself for not telling you sooner.”

 

“Well that’s silly,” Clarke laughs, tilting her head forward so that her forehead rests against his. “You’re not suave.”

 

“I know.”

 

“I like you too,” Clarke says, low, leaning towards him, and Bellamy almost whites out again. But he manages to pull it together in time to lean back.

 

“Clarke, seriously,” he says, wetting his lips. “I don’t want you to get sick.”

 

“But…” She’s staring at his mouth, and he _knows_ if she starts kissing him he’s not going to be able to stop, so he reaches over to cover her mouth with his free hand.

 

“Mmf,” she spurts against his palm.

 

“Clarke. Wait until I’m not contagious, and I promise, I will kiss you. I will kiss the hell out of you. You will get so tired of kissing me, because I’m going to do it all the time. It’s all I’ve wanted to do for the past six months.”

 

“Fine,” Clarke mutters. When Bellamy pulls back his hand, she’s beaming. “Plus, I’m kind of glad you got sick. It gave me an excuse to spend Christmas with you.”

 

“Yeah?” Bellamy’s heart is so full at this point that he’s worried it might shatter.

 

“Yeah,” she confirms, eyes bright. “And I don’t have to go back to work for a few more days. Think this bug will be out of your system soon?”

 

“It fucking better be,” Bellamy growls.

 

Clarke laughs, curling back against his shoulder. “We’ve got time,” she says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world and not a goddamn miracle.

 

Bellamy tips his head against hers, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt. “Yeah. We’ve got time.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://leralynne.tumblr.com)!


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